Aftermath
by Ash Katchadourian
Summary: This is a 20th birthday present for one of my best friends in the whole world! It's about the aftermath of Jerry's death, and my attempt to make sense of some mediocre characterization on Shonda's part. But I'm pretty mediocre too so...awkward. HOPE YOU LOVE IT BEST FRANDDDD...Update: This is NOT Olake. I haven't decided if it's Olitz yet. It's just a fic right now. God bless.
1. The Vermeil Room

Mellie Grant was dressed in a sleeveless, black wrap dress that hung just above the knee, with a straight hemline. The matching cardigan was currently in her hands, soft cashmere gripped tightly by the First Lady. Her hair was in a chignon, and as she glanced in the mirror, she couldn't help noticing how tied she looked. She supposed burying your 15-year-old son could that to a woman.

It had all happened so fast; Jerry had started coughing and then she'd noticed the sputters of red coming out of his nose and mouth. Fitz had stopped his speech and they'd rushed with the secret service to a hospital in the dark black vehicle that Mellie had grown accustomed to riding in. Karen was crying the whole way there as Jerry passed in and out of consciousness, his head resting in Mellie's lap. Fitz had been frightful, Mellie remembered; after his charismatic and hopeful speech to the American people, his words to his own son had seemed even more strained and frail than they otherwise might've. "You'll be okay, buddy," was what the President had murmured over and over again, his brows furrowed in obvious fear and panic. Then, Jerry had stopped breathing, and though Mellie had performed slightly hysterical CPR, he was already gone. The hospital, once they'd arrived, had proved only useful in suggesting a time of death for Fitzgerald Thomas Grant IV.

Her son was gone, Mellie thought numbly. How could that be? Less than a week ago, they'd had an argument about his lack of support for the political side of his family. He'd called her crazy for continuing to support his father after all he'd done to them, even blaming him for her indiscretions with Uncle Andrew. She'd given him the ultimatum of losing his allowance or attending the rally and putting on a happy face for the cameras. It had felt cheap at the time, but he'd chosen just the way she'd have chosen, and it filled her with a political parent's sort of pride, knowing that if and when the time arose for him to turn to politics he'd do a better job than his father before him. But it seemed that any ambitions for him were irrelevant now.  
Mellie draped the cardigan over the back of a wooden chair in the Vermeil Room of the White House, the room she was currently occupying. With a shaky sigh, she reached for the bottle of scotch and the glass tumbler, only allowing herself two fingers of the amber ale. She wouldn't become a drunk; she couldn't do that to Jerry's memory. More than she could say for her husband, she thought bitterly, thinking about how she had scarcely seen Fitz without a drink in the past few days. What made Mellie angriest of all was that she knew that the disappearance of Olivia Pope was affecting Fitz too. Even in the midst of family tragedy and heartbreak, the famous "fixer" was ever-president on the President's mind. And there was nothing Mellie no anyone else had ever been able to change that.

A knock on the door pulled Mellie out of her own head. She set the drink on the coffee table, calling out for the person to enter the room. It was her secretary, Pauline Lawrence. She wore a black skirt-suit with a white blouse; a polite tone down from her usual vibrant reds and pastels in lieu of the death of the President's son.

"Pauline," Mellie began with a sigh, "If there are any more letters of condolence…"  
"No, ma'am," Pauline said, shaking her head firmly. "You have a visitor."

Mellie's brows furrowed in confusion; Fitz was off somewhere tossing back doubles of scotch, she was sure of it. And Cyrus would be up to something related to political or military strategy, given the way Fitz was behaving and his escapist mentality. Sally Langston was no longer a member of the White House, though had she been, she would have expressed her sorrow while tying in something about God and peace. Anyone else in the White House would not have the stones to disturb her at a time like this.

The Vice President walked in. Mellie's eyes widened momentarily in shock, her heartbeat quickening ever so slightly. Andrew Nichols was wearing a deep, black suit, double-breasted and with understated lapels. He looked as tired as she felt, and just as sad. Pauline closed the door smartly before either of them could say a word.

"Mellie," Andrew began with a sigh. Every time he'd imagined speaking to Mellie again, it had never been under these circumstances.  
"Don't you mean Mrs. Grant?" Mellie said coldly, seeing a shocked and pained expression take hold of Andrew's face. With a sigh of her own, Mellie looked to the ground for a moment, rotating her jaw. "I don't want to argue with you, Andrew. And frankly, I don't want to see you. I'm too exhausted for either. So, thank you for your condolences, and I'm sure Pauline—"  
"Condolences?" Andrew snapped incredulously, and when Mellie looked she could see that his face was furious. That normally endearing West Coast, sunshine drawl had tuned red hot as he spoke again. " You think that I've come here to offer you condolences?"  
"Well, isn't that—?" Mellie began again, as Andrew took an intimidating step towards her, his eyes on hers.  
"Condolences," Andrew spat, " Are for strangers and staff. I am neither."  
"You could have fooled me," Mellie muttered, staring straight back at him. She knew it was a low blow, but it had felt beyond her control.  
"This isn't about us," Andrew snapped, grabbing her harshly by her shoulders. "This is about the fact that your boy, your boy who I have loved ever since I first laid eyes on him, is gone. It's about the fact that we lost him, and there's nothing we, with all of the power we have, can do to change that." His eyes were glistening now, his voice breaking at the end of his statement. "I didn't come here to offer you condolences, Mellie. I came here to grieve. After all of the years that you've known me, you should know how much I love your kids. And I think the fact that you don't is more hurtful than anything else ever could be."  
"Andrew, wait," Mellie called as he turned to leave. Her brows knitted together in pain and shame. He stopped with his hand on the knob and looked to her. She clasped both her hands in front of herself and apologized, "That was rude and petty of me. I _do_ know how much you love…_loved_ Jerry," she smiled in a forced way. "He didn't call you Uncle Andrew for nothing."

There was a moment of silence before Mellie closed the distance between them, throwing her arms over his shoulders and burying her face into the crook of his neck. Without a moment's hesitation, Andrew locked his arms around the First Lady, resting his head on hers. There was some grief, some pain, that could only be stilled little by little and for small moments; and at that, ti could only be stilled by someone who was just as emotionally destroyed as you were. This, Andrew thought, was one of those cases.

" I don't know what I'm going to do," Mellie started, her bottom lip quivering as she pulled away. Admitting defeat or uncertainty was not something Mellie Grant did often, and not to everyone. She hadn't admitted it to her own husband in God knew how long, so the fact that she had done such with Andrew must've said something about how much trust she could easily put into him. "I can't cry anymore; I want to, I _need_ to, but every drop of water inside of one human being has already been cried out over the past two days. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't do anything. I worry about Karen, about her mental and physical state well-being after this. Teddy, thank heavens, is too young to understand what's going on. Fitz…well, he's beyond my ability to console or help or coddle, and on top of that…we get letters every single day from hundreds of thousands of well-meaning Americans who want to help with kind words but it doesn't help because they didn't lose their son." Mellie paused, casting her eyes up at Andrew, "It doesn't help because my son is dead. And my life is over. And I don't know what I'm going to do. "She paused, pleased that he didn't attempt to speak but only stroked he back softly. She lowered her voice; as if fearful her next words might be overheard. "And I am angry. I am furious with Fitz."  
"Fitz?" This surprised Andrew and he pulled his face away to get a good look at her. Mellie's eyes and jaw were hard and he knew what that face meant; it meant that she was not only angry, but resentful and hateful and bitter even. But Mellie, logical and poised as she was, always had a reason. And Andrew Nichols prided himself on being the person she could explain such things to.  
Mellie moved away from Andrew, drinking the scotch she'd set aside upon his entrance. The liquid was rancid and bitter, but not nearly as much as the words she was about to say.  
"In the years that we have been married, I have lost more than I can ever hope to gain again. I have lost my self-esteem with the way he treats my opinions, political or otherwise; the way he views me as," she pauses, a mirthless smile on her face, "What was it he said? Ah, yes: 'Ornamental, not functional'." Andrew winced at the words, but Mellie went on. "I have lost my pride and dignity with his childlike attachment to his whore, his sweet, angelic, immaculate Olivia Pope. The way I had to pretend that disgusting audio footage of the two of them was me and my philandering husband; the way I had to conceive my Teddy as a political ploy, not as an act of love. And the fact that every single day, she _still_ isn't out of our lives because he will _always_ run back to her, and that even when she is gone, he still isn't mine. He will _never_ be mine." She tightened her right hand into a fist. "I lost myself the night Big Jerry forced himself onto me, the night I sold my soul and every part of me worth a damn for Fitz's political career. All so that I could be this," Mellie threw out her hands for effect. "So that I, with all my years of college and practical experience, could be ornamental. Not functional." She lowered her eyes to the ground. "I lost you right after I found you again. Because of his warped sense of loyalty and possessive jealousy. Because he's the _only_ one allowed to fall in love outside of this God-forsaken marriage." She looked up again, tears stinging her eyes. "And now I've lost my son. Because of the office which _President Grant_ holds, because of things that have nothing to do with Jerry or Karen or even, in Fitz's opinion, me. And the way I see it, the ship that is my life has been sinking ever since I hitched to the SS Fitzgerald Grant the Third. And I hate him for it, I _loathe_ him. And I wish…" Mellie looked down, hating herself for her dark thoughts. She began sobbing, the shame and rage and grief consuming her. " I wish it had been him and not Jerry who'd died."

Andrew was fiercely loyal to Fitz, or at least he had been. It was this loyalty that had all but handed him the vice-presidency, and thus it had been this loyalty that had teased him with Mellie Grant's proximity before yanking it away again. Andrew could agree with Fitz on the fact that someone taking Mellie away from him would cause outrage and jealousy, but for Fitz the emotion had not come from the right place. He didn't want Mellie for himself; he didn't want her for anyone. He'd taken her to be cruel, to assert his Presidential Power. And to add insult to injury, he'd made his own mistress do the dirty work of ending the affair. That was not the Fitzgerald Grant Andrew had befriended all those years ago, and it was the Fitzgerald Grant Andrew wanted to know. Yet he could not dissuade every ounce of loyalty within him enough to openly badmouth the President of the United States, even to the woman he loved.

"Fitz is not perfect," Andrew began carefully, pulling Mellie down onto the plush, red sofa with him; she was bawling into the left shoulder of his suit. "But no man is. And despite his faults, he is probably feeling just as angry ad disgusted with himself as you are right now."  
"I wouldn't bet on that," Mellie muttered, causing Andrew to laugh for the first tie in days. It was a strange and foreign sound to both of them, and so they let it hang in the room for a moment.  
"Still," Andrew went on, pushing a lock of escaped hair behind Mellie's ear and pulling her face up to look at his. Her eyes were red and puffy, but she was still undoubtedly beautiful. "His intentions, for the most part, were not malicious. As much as he is to blame, he also isn't. Fate plays a large hand in most things without us even knowing."  
"Andrew, if I wanted the Lord's Will and 'Good Christian Values' brought into this, I'd have phoned Sally," Mellie complained, moving a hand to rest on his thigh.  
"Mock me if you like," Andrew persisted, leaning his head back so he could look at all of the paintings on the wall in front of him. They were of the First Ladies, who were not to be touched; he wondered if they were as forbidden from his fingertips as the one that was curled up in his arms at that moment. He kept his eyes forward and concluded with a chill in his vice. "But I'll stand by my belief. And my belief is that the Presidency is a cursed office."  
"I don't believe in curses, "Mellie told him immediately, though his words had made her bones go cold.  
"Think about it," Andrew wondered, looking down with her. "Name one President who was happy, Mellie?"  
"Name one **person** who is, Andrew," was all she said in response.


	2. The Oceanside

Olivia Pope was on a beach of white sand and clear, blue water, reclining in a lounge chair. She wore a turquoise, halter-cut bikini and a white sarong. The tan, floppy hat as paired with dark, designer sunglasses, and the drink in her right hand was neither white wine nor red, but rather a mojito with a fresh cut of green lime wedged over the rim of the glass. The sharp taste wasn't what she'd longed for, but if she was shedding the crippling responsibility of her old life, than she could make do to try a few new drinks at the very least.

"What are you thinking about?" came the voice of the man laying next to her. Jake Ballard was in a pair of navy blue swim trunks—a pair that accented her swimsuit quite nicely, she noted—and off-the-rack sunglasses. He'd been attentive, annoyingly so, ever since they'd landed on this little, unremarkable Cuban Island, far away from the troubles of their old lives.  
"Nothing," Olivia told him, stifling a sigh. She'd come here to escape, not to be put through yet another form of persistent aggravation. And an idle, ex-B613 commanding operator who was in love with her definitely fell in line with the 'persistent aggravation' description.  
"Olivia Pope," Jake began, tilting his head towards her. "Does not know how to think about 'nothing'."

He did have a point there. After the years and years she'd put into Pope and Associates, the man-hours and emotional turmoil surmounting every other aspect of her life, she wasn't exactly sure what to do with herself now that she'd left it behind. There would be no morning coffee in the bathroom, no vetting clients, no travelling God-knew-where to talk to God-knew-who about God-knew-what. And best of all, there would be no sordid, tangled, disturbing relationship with anyone in any position of political power. She was finally able to find herself again; the real, god, honest Olivia Pope who was worthy of the white hat she boasted of, not the tan one she wore now. Being free of Washington and politics and all that that entailed would take more than a little getting used to but if she hadn't done it now, then when? When Fitz's presidency was over? When her father had killed more people using her friends like Huck and Quinn and Jake? When he mother had killed another child?

She would not, could not, voice most of these concerns to Jake, of course. He was a friend, a good one, but what he had left behind had been far darker than her own baggage. He'd left behind his constitutional duty to maim and murder in the name of the Republic, and he'd done so after he'd been ungraciously dethroned. Olivia had always made it her goal to know as little about the inner-workings of her father's baby as possible; adding that to her already political-heavy lifestyle had always seemed masochistic and suicidal. But Jake had given her insight simply by existing; she'd seen glimmers of the beast within, been the object of his wrath and devotion. And she'd seen how hard he'd tried to protect the fragile psyche of the other members of B613 by taking on the role of assassin exclusively, despite how flawed that system had been. If she was broken, then he was obliterated, and there was absolutely nothing else to be said on that subject. Still, he looked so at peace here next to her that she smiled for a fraction of a second thinking about how much healthier and happier he'd be now. She just hoped she could be, as well.

"Very true," Olivia told him, sitting up ever so slightly. "But you're forgetting; I'm not Olivia Pope."  
"Right," Jake said with a nod, a faint smile on his face. He lifted a beer to his mouth and Liv swore that she'd never appreciated his physical stature as much as she did now, beneath the glaring sun. "Out of curiosity, what _would_ Olivia Pope be thinking about?"  
"She'd be thinking that she abandoned her friends and clients in a very selfish and opportunistic way," Olivia started with. "She'd think she was an awful person for missing Jerry's funeral, but also that she was strong for puling herself away instead of making the thousand-and-one excuses she had lined up to keep her in Washington and by his side." Olivia looked down at the rum-filled beverage in her hand. "And she'd be endlessly lamenting the choice of a mojito over a ten-year-old Merlot."  
"Order a glass of red at dinner tonight," was all Jake said in response, not touching the Fitz subject with a ten-foot-pole. That had always been her trigger, and he was so busy enjoying her company, he didn't want her to slip away again into that darkened void that the mere mention of President Grant's name pulled her into. Taking a sip of his Corona, Jake shrugged, "Hell, order a bottle."  
"It's margarita night and I'm not Olivia Pope," Liv said simply.  
"You did the right thing," Jake declared, very matter-of-fact in his approach, though there was a softness to his voice as well. "For once, you put yourself first instead of…anyone else."  
"You mean Fitz," Olivia's tone was dry. She stared straight ahead and watched a sailboat glide across the glossy surface of the ocean in the distance.  
"Yes, I mean Fitz," Jake affirmed, sitting up in a far less relaxed nature. "Your relationship with him was such a goddamn conflict of interest! And I think that time away will help you to realize that."  
"I don't need time, Jake," Olivia snapped, getting annoyed. "My job, my career, depends –well, _depended_—on pinpointing, understanding, and diffusing scandals, the most popular of which regarded adultery. I never needed timed to understand that my relationship with Fitz was a huge mistake and a liability. It was a ticking, time bomb, preparing to detonate ever since I joined his campaign team when he was Governor Grant."  
"So then why did you do it?" Jake demanded, his skin softly browning under the Cuban sun, and his words heating up as well. "I just…I don't get it. You're a beautiful, intelligent, funny, talented woman. You were raised by Command, a side of him I've never seen but that I think instilled you with good qualities. At least that's how you come across to me. You even said that scandal was your job, so how on Earth could you fall into the biggest cliché of all? How could you let this happen? _Why_ did you let this happen?"  
"Fitz didn't happen to me," Olivia said in a distant, reserved voice, drawing directly from a conversation she'd had with the President himself. "He's not some **thing** that happened to me. And I'm not some thing that happened to him. We're not victims, just two people who made a choice. A bad one."  
"Why did you choose him?" Jake asked, his voice more curious than condemning.  
"I don't know," Olivia drank down her mojito in one gulp.

And she didn't know; why Fitz, why Governor Grant? Even before she'd gotten o know him, there had been a pull that she couldn't place. IT aggravated her to this day that she couldn't logically or legitimately define the cause of their relationship. On her side, at least Fitz's reasoning, she thought bitterly, was becoming abundantly clear with each piece of dirty laundry that was being hung out on the line lately. His wife had shut him out of her bed and he'd strayed and she'd been the nearest thing when he needed it most. It wasn't romantic or inspiring or anything even remotely worth anything. It was just as she'd always feared deep inside of herself; it was cheap and it was dirty. That was it, that was the end of their story. It just stopped right there.

Her eyes got wet as she thought about Jerry, the boy who she'd only met a handful of times and was now gone. "Do you think it should have been me?" she asked quietly. When Jake only gave her a confused look, she went on. "What happened to Jerry; I…I won't go as far as to say it was my fault because I did not poison that child nor would I ever do…But I'm…I'm the common denominator in this whole ordeal." She set her empty glass down, flipping some of her raven hair out of her face. "It was my mother who killed him, who poisoned him to make some sort of statement. She would've killed Fitz had I not intervened, because she still has a warped and twisted sense of love and devotion to me that keeps me alive at her hands. And my father's heavy hand in the affairs of B613 is the reason that you and Huck and now Quinn are…" she trailed off, not sure how best to end that statement. She shook her head as if shaking the thought out of her head. "My mother and father are murderous monsters, and I'm a home-wrecker. And this web of lies and plots and schemes and distorted love has resulted in the death of a fifteen-year-old boy. It would have been better, poetic even, if it had been me."

"Olivia," Jake began, not entirely sure where he was heading with his statement. The only people Jake could console were the dead or dying; promising them that anywhere was better than here or else that he'd make it quick. She was neither, as far as he could tell.  
She stood up, grabbing her empty mojito glass to go refill it. " I'm not Olivia Pope."


	3. Wonderland

Fitz was in the Oval Office, wearing the black suit and tie he'd worn earlier that morning at Jerry's funeral. The stylist had chosen it because of its elegant simplicity; it made the President look like he could be any grieving man or father, not the leader of the free world who was, ironically, to blame for the whole event to begin with. He didn't feel like a grieving man. He felt like a dead one. He felt as if he should've been buried with Jerry at the service, because it would be relatively impossible for him to carry out is presidential duties now. It was satirical in a melancholic sort of way that the price of his free and fair election was the one thing that might destroy him enough, to in turn, destroy his presidency.  
In every man's first child—in particular, his first _son_—he placed all of his hopes and ambitions, a terrifying amount. If he hadn't been good at baseball or basketball or lacrosse, well, now he had a son to perfect those skills in his honour. And if he _had_ been a strong player, now he had the chance to see his own flesh and blood back on that sacred field, matching or possibly surpassing his skill level. Despite his flaws and failings, despite his crumbling marriage, his kids had been a source of pride and glory for him; they were of him, but only the good parts that were untainted and whole. As long as he had them it meant he still had a chance; a chance to be a better father and husband and man. With Jerry gone, it was painfully clear how much he'd neglected so many of his duties.  
He didn't know his son's favourite sport. He knew it wasn't tennis; that was all too obvious after that one awful weekend on the court that seemed to have taken places ages ago. But what was it? Soccer, football? Maybe basketball, like his Old Man? Fitz didn't know if Jerry had had a girlfriend back at school, or which subject had been his favourite, or even if he had seen the latest marvel movie. Jerry had always loved superheroes. Hadn't he? Fitz furrowed his brows. Perhaps he was making things up to fill the void in his mind and heart where Jerry was meant to fill. His features softened for a moment as he decided that, yes, Jerry had always loved superheroes. But what little boy hadn't?  
Fitz poured himself a double scotch, downing it instantly. He needed this semi-permanent buzz just to face each new day. He hit the button on his intercom that connected him to his secretary. Fitz ordered her to get the President of France on the line, which she obliged. He hated that he could tell how gently the other leaders of the world were being with him, and even more that he was grateful to them for it and unwilling to ask them to drop the charade. Standing strong and fearless, putting on a brave face for an audience was no longer even second-nature; it was simply who he was as President. But in the midst of personal tragedy, the charade was not even remotely convincing.  
He talked diplomacy, conferences, and political strategy; Olivia had told him previously that something stronger than a run-of-the-mill political friendship with the other world leaders would prove not only good for optics, but in general if he ever found himself in need of a favour. She'd warned him, of course, not to put _too_ much faith in their friendship, but to still hold it to a certain degree so that they too could tell the friendship wasn't lukewarm. She'd reminded him that being a leader was lonely, and that the others elected to the highest office of their respective countries knew that as well as he did. The words she strung together, the logic behind them and the simplicity of them, had always taken him by surprise and yet made him feel an unwavering kinship to her, and a respect for her judgement.  
When the French president expressed his condolences, it pulled Fitz out of his reveries of Liv and he murmured a polite 'Thank You' before immediately changing the subject, steering the conversation elsewhere. The phone call ended, and Fitz poured himself another double whilst sitting comfortably in the leather-backed chair. He tapped his fingers restlessly against the wooden desk before paging his secretary once more.

"Send Tom in," Fitz declared, his voice strong and unwavering.  
"Right away, sir," Came the speedy response, and within five seconds, the Secret Service agent had come into the Oval.

His hands were behind his back, legs slightly less than a shoulder width apart. Tom's blue eyes were unfocused, staring blankly at the section of the wall behind Fitz and just slightly to his left, as was protocol. Tom was a loyal and dedicated member of the Secret Service who, due to a series of unideal circumstances, was privy to some of the most personal details of President Grant's life.

"I'm going to Eli Pope," was all Fitz said, having made the decision abruptly following his phone call. Tom, usually reticent about Fitz's impulsive and erratic behaviour, simply gave a curt nod in response. Raising a brow, Fitz added, " Alone."  
"I'm afraid that's not possible, Sir," was Tom's response, his eyes still remaining to the left of Fitz, eye contact also 'not possible', apparently.  
"Just making sure you're not broken, Agent," Fitz replied in monotone, though usually he'd have said something like that with a grin and a friendly pat on the shoulder. He hadn't smiled in what felt like forever, and he doubted he ever would again.

Fitz,Tom, and three other agents boarded a black chopper that flew them near to 'Wonderland'. They landed expertly a few blocks away, switching to a car wherein Fitz was shuffled the remaining distance to the headquarters location that fronted as an Acme paper company. Fitz walked into Eli's office, Tom and the others standing guard at the door. Eli was drinking a half glass of water, sifting through pages and pages of confidential papers and seemingly cross-referencing them with information on his black ThinkPad. When he looked up and saw Fitz there, his face showed no surprise, but rather annoying.

"Where is she?" Fitz demanded without preamble, his voice casually forceful.  
"Do you understand what a violation of national security it is for you to be here, Mr. President?" Eli asked, parsing his words as his mouth set into a half-scowl.  
"Yes," Fitz told him, stepping closer. " Where is she?"  
"Oh, good," Eli's voice was bored as he cast his eyes back down to his desk, placing a few of the papers on one corner of his desk and skimming the others. " I was worried that you were a simpleton, when it turns out you're just an idiot."  
"Where. Is. She?" Fitz asked for the third time, his voice taking on a colder edge.  
"We both know that if my daughter doesn't want to be found, she won't be," Eli pushed the files back into the manila folder atop his desk. As long as President Grant was trampling about and demanding attention, it was clear that the day would not be very productive.  
"I've found her before," Fitz shrugged, hands resting casually in his pockets.  
"Do you listen to others speak, or are you so in love with the sound of your own voice that you actually block out any moment where anyone but you is speaking? You have _found_ her before because for _whatever_ reason she was _wanted_ to be found. But now, MR. President, she is determined to stay where you are not. And so, you will not find her."  
"You told her to leave," Fitz's accusation was a feeble bluff, but he pressed on anyway, not really having a counter-argument to Eli's previous point. "Once again, you tried to step into the role of a father, thirty years too late. And you got her a plane or a chopper or something and forced her to leave."  
"A year ago I tried to make her leave," Eli answered, folding his hands together atop his desk and looking directly into the eyes of the man who was supposedly the leader of the free world. "This time, she called _me _and requested a plane. Even brought Ballard along for the ride." Eli smirked maliciously at the shocked and disbelieving look on Fitz's face. "Whatever it was that you _believe _you had with my daughter, it has come to pass. Not a moment too soon, I might add. And although Jake Ballard has his considerable faults, and is not even remotely desirable as a suitor for the magnificent and amazing Olivia Pope, he could be worse. He could be **president**."  
"I don't believe you," was all Fitz could utter, his eyes stinging with rage and hurt, though this wasn't visible to anyone. It was only a sensation he was so used to feeling; something that made him feel like the small and vulnerable boy who had been raised by a bully like Big Jerry.  
"Of course not," Eli taunted, enjoying tearing Fitz apart. Like a shark that had smelled blood, he went in for the attack. "Because you are President Fitzgerald Grant, golden _boy_, and if you don't believe it, it can't possibly be true. God, you probably believed those presents under your tree every year were from Santy Claus until you were in high school. And then threw a tantrum and cried great big, wet, tears because you 'didn't believe it'. Because the truth 'didn't agree with you'. Because the truth is hard and it hurts and it isn't biased towards pretty boys with pockets full of daddy's money. Are you really so pompous and egotistical to believe that Olivia will stand by, _waiting_ for you to grow up and be a man and make a choice for the rest of her life? That sooner or later she wouldn't realize you were just a _boy _playing dress up in your daddy's clothes and ambitions? And that the love she _wanted_ to feel for you was just _pity_ and awkward timing?"  
"She loves me," Fitz declared, redirecting his anger at Eli. " Just because you've never loved anything in your life, it doesn't give you the right to belittle things _you_ know **nothing** about. Olivia and I—"  
"Are over," Eli's voice was filled with a weighty sort of finality. "Are nothing. Are non-existent. She's gone. She left you. She's not coming back." He paused for a moment, his face contorting into a look of contempt as he saw the pain on the President's. With the look of the terrifying man that every B6-13 agent knew him to be, Eli became command, and said in a sharp, oppressive manner, " You're a married man. For God sakes, act like it."

Fitz thought of Mellie and all of the hardships they'd passed through over the years. And now, in light of certain events, how much of that was due to his own father; the father who still haunted Fitz everyday, with the dark and consuming shadow he couldn't escape. Much the way his shadow had flushed out Jerry's light. Regardless of all that, Fitz wanted to earn back Mellie's trust and friendship and try to fix what was broken between them. But their marriage was over. Realizing that didn't even hurt Fitz, he realized. He loved and cared for her, and as much as she was a pain in the ass, she was the mother of his children and they had been partners for years. But _he_ was President, _he_ made the tough decisions, and she could never accept that about him. Part of what had driven the wedge between them was all of the needless sacrifices she had made behind his back, the pieces she'd given up without enough reason.  
Mellie and he, it was true, had had something decent and good prior to Big Jerry's indiscretion. But to say that they had been in love would be a gross overstatement. It had been lukewarm and affectionate, like any other political marriage he supposed. They'd been partners, they'd been _together_, but never lovers. They'd intertwined beneath the covers, but never beneath their skin. His feelings for her had never set him on fire inside or shone brighter than the sun. She wasn't a beacon of hope and understanding and passion and balance and unwavering beauty. She wasn't Olivia. And perhaps she was right in saying that he was an idealist romantic, and perhaps Eli was even right in saying he was a boy who couldn't accept that his dreams were just dreams; but Fitz knew with every fibre of his being that he and Liv had something…something out of the movies. And loving Liv had awakened something in Fitz that would never be dormant again.

"She wouldn't leave without saying goodbye," again, Fitz forced more certainty into his words than he felt." Not after…" Flashing images of Jerry dying went through his mind. He stopped speaking, and Eli knew immediately what thoughts had taken him.  
"Again, you assume that her life revolves around yours," Eli responded, shaking his head. It seemed that there was absolutely no getting through to official frontman of the republic. "Your son was killed. By someone close to Liv. And if I were a wishing man, I'd wish that things could've gone differently. But I'm not a wishing man. I'm a realistic one. And though losing a child is hard and painful and devastating, neither my daughter's absence nor her return will be enough to distract you from your pain. She is not a distraction. Or a pacifier. And she is gone, and it is for the best, because I don't know if I can stomach the idea of a man in power, even as _little_ power as you have, Mr. President, being so hopelessly dependent. I know that you are looking for something to do and looking for an enemy, but _please_ hear me when I say that you have _plenty_ of both. Either step down as Commander-in-Chief to be with your family and sort through your emotions or step **up** and finally become a real person instead of the narcissistic, self-victimizing child you were raised to be and have been for fifty some-odd years. I have tolerated you more than enough for one day, and now I am telling you to leave my office."

Fitz gaped at the man in annoyance. His sharp wit and quick, violent words were comparable only to those of his daughter. Fitz knew from experience that an argument was futile. Besides, he didn't have one. Because Eli Pope was right, and Fitz would never admit that to the man who'd hated him on sight. Distractions were useless and offensive. He needed to grieve for Jerry, for the son he'd lost long before his death, the son he'd never know. He needed to be with Karen and try to connect with her before it was too late, and to bounce Teddy on his knee who was too young to know the faults of his father. Without another word, Fitz turned and exited the room with his Secret Service detail in tow, Eli having already turned back to his work.


	4. The Chief of Staff's Office

Cyrus still wore the suit from young Jerry Grant's funeral earlier that day. In fact, the simple black ensemble was starting to feel like a sort of uniform; he'd worn it to the funeral of Mr. Langston, to Jerry's, and even to that of his own husband. He remembered that funeral the least, a film of tears and grief keeping him from that memory. All he could be sure of was that there had been enough white and red roses to fill a garden; the scent fresh and vivacious rather than the stuffy scent like that of a funeral home. He had made sure of it, hadn't he? That niggling voice in the back of his head would let him do no less.

_"Cy, really? Only three dozen flowers? What was I to you, a high school prom date? Well, don't go over ten dozen! I'm not the Pope, for God's sake. Although, wouldn't that be something…"  
_  
He put down the speech one of the many Presidential speech writers had put together for the grieving President, the speech that _he_, the grieving Chief of Staff, had been proof-reading to give it the okay before it was then passed on to the commander-in-chief. Cyrus had been white knuckling it through his pain ever since he'd buried his husband. Sure, the loss of a spouse was heavy for anyone, but he was painfully aware that this was no ordinary set of circumstances. In addition to it **_not_** being an accident, and actually being a murder conducted by someone close to the two people he respected most, it had all happened because of the secrets and lies in his marriage to James. If he had been honest with his husband even once, their lives and marriage would've turned out far differently. Of course, make-believe and what-ifs never got anybody anywhere, but at the bottom of a tumbler. He had his dear friend Fitz to prove that point.  
With a sigh, he looked at the picture of him, James, and Ella at her baptism; it had been one of the happiest, highest points in their marriage. Now, Cyrus was a widower who was bad with everything that wasn't dirty, gritty politics. How on Earth was he going to raise this beautiful, little girl into anything but a monster? He supposed he could ask Olivia about her upbringing as Eli Pope's prodigal daughter. That was, of course, if he could get a hold of her. She'd fallen off the face of the Earth before Jerry was even cold in his grave. No goodbye, no note, nothing. It wasn't very Olivia Pope, but maybe that was the point. Cyrus Beene raised his hand to touch James' face in the family portrait on his desk, but pulled back slowly, dropping his hand to the desk instead. He lifted up the speech once more.

A knock sounded, and his secretary Evelyn White, peeked in. He could never understand the point of knocking if one was simply going to enter anyway.

"The First Lady here to see you, sir," said the girl. There was no pause to see if he'd accept or deny the request, but in a moment, Mellie Grant entered.

Her dress was navy, with a boat neckline and a knee-length skirt with one, crisp pleat. The shoes were black, short-heeled, and her hair was in a ponytail of medium height.

"You changed," was the first thing Cyrus said, setting the speech back down on his desk respectfully.  
"I had to," She said, wringing her hands more out of lack of stimuli than nerves or anxiety.  
"How are you holding up?" he asked knowing it was a ridiculous question; one he'd been asked countless times when James' death was 'fresh', come to think of it.  
"I'm really, _really_, not," Mellie said, smiling mirthlessly with the corner of her mouth. "But I think in a few days, the American people will decide that I've grieved for long enough. I wonder how I'll be 'holding up' then."  
"Mellie, you should get out of the country for a while," Cyrus told her compassionately. " Take Karen and Teddy, and go somewhere where the stench of what's happened here has a harder time settling into your clothes."  
"I can't," Mellie said with a strained expression on her face once more. "Because we have to look like we're grieving as a 'family' so we have to stay with _Fitzgerald_ until things go back to normal. Not that he speaks to any of us. Except, maybe Teddy." She sighs, pacing the length of his office. " Cyrus, I am _sick_ and I am _tired_ and I **will _not _**go on in my marriage or in my life like this."  
"Now isn't the time to get worked up about this," Cyrus warned, never really a pro at placating others. He could feel a headache coming on, and grabbing the brass key atop his desk and next to his family portrait, he opened the right side drawer and pulled out a bottle of aspirin.  
"Now isn't the time?" Mellie repeated, a brow arched in incredulity as hand perched on her hip. "What am I supposed to do, hm? Wait until another one of my kids is killed?"  
"Mellie, please," Cyrus nearly begged, unscrewing the cap and closing his eyes in defeat.  
"Don't 'Mellie, please' me," she ordered, stepping up towards his desk, and he could see that her eyes were a lot less red than he'd have expected, but she did have an exhaustion to her. "I have been silenced and ignored and swept under the rug for too long. Ever since the _beginning_ of this Presidency, I have been the unwanted thing, the complication, the _wife_. I have been the one that he has promised to love, and he hasn't done right by me, by his country, or worst of all, by his kids. Cyrus, I have been trying so hard to win him back, _earn him_ back, get him to remember that we are partners, and yet he will always choose Olivia. That is the truth I live with now. But when his son dies, when **his** son **dies **and he gets re-elected, and in the midst of what we are _all _going through he calls out _her_ name…that is where I draw the line. That is where I hand in my resignation. That, Cyrus, is where I quit. Even **I** cannot be expected to stand by him for a minute longer."  
"You, you take a seat, Mrs. First Lady," Cyrus says, laughing as if he's having a grand time, swallowing two tablets with some water. Mellie gives him a confused look and he points again at the chair across from his desk, " Go on, take a seat." She does so, folding her hands in her lap, and not a quarter of a second later does Cyrus' tirade begin. " Fitz has tried to leave you before, he has made his desires known. He has loved Olivia since the _beginning_ of his Presidency at least, and you have known this. Yet every time separation has been brought up you, cry, and you scream, and you hold your breath, and you stomp your feet and you make a _scene_. And you have been so determined to keep him, you have been vicious in your desire to hang on to him. Now your family is going through something tragic and awful and appalling, and Olivia Pope is gone God knows where, and _now_ is the time you say you want to let him go? _Now_ you've had enough, **_now_** you can't take it? Not when they were fooling around in every room of the White House, or in hotels along the campaign trail or who even knows where else. But really, Mellie, _really_, you are telling me that **right** here, **_right_** now is the end of the line?" Cyrus had delivered that entire speech scarcely remembering to breathe, his face getting slightly red from the exertion. He shook his head and laughed once more, before turning serious again. " Too bad. You married him, you wanted him, you _got _him. That lump of scotch and sadness and boyish angst and, on occasion, absolutely _brilliant_ ideas, is your prize to take home. Give him a name, give him his shots, he's _yours_." He picks up his speech again, utterly exhausted with the unnecessary drama that is Mellie Grant. " You married your slutty husband. I married mine."  
Mellie shook her head with a faint smile, a look of unabashed annoyance on her face. "You feel guilty, Cy," she told him, " You feel guilty about all the things that happened between you and James and Daniel Douglas. And yes, I was right up there plotting with you, but he wasn't my husband. He was yours, and you had a duty to him, one that he fulfilled day in and day out and you didn't. That was your mistake, your sin, your crime. And I can imagine how hard it's been living with that guilt, knowing what you know, and not being able to change it. Because he was your husband, God rest his soul, and I loved that quirky little journalist with the amazing suits and sharp opinions. But he wasn't mine. And he and Fitz don't have a thing in common except that they both married brilliant liars." She smirked at him, a nod to the fact that they were probably the most underrated geniuses in the White House, especially with how they'd had to handle Fitz's moods. "Truth is, I'm not here as a woman scorned, but a mother scorned, and that's something much worse. I want to be rid of him, Cyrus. I want to be free once and for all, I want my _kids_ to be free, and safe. Very Jackie Kennedy, wouldn't you say?"  
"Jackie Kennedy had old Joe looking out for her," Cyrus reminded the brazen brunette, tapping a pen to his mouth and setting the speech down for a final time. " Big Jerry passed away ages ago, so it's just you and his son tussling it out now. And you know what, Mellie? I'm team Fitz. I have to be. So if you try to leave him, or take his kids away for good, or even raise one of your cotton candy fingernails at a press conference without his best intentions at heart, I'm going to drag you through the mud." He shrugged, taking a sip of water, cold and calculating like he was. " It's what I do. It's who I am. I am a political pitbull, and Fitzgerald Grant is the bright red Frisbee that I want to see soaring in the sky. And I will strike down anyone who adds more work to this Administration's endless tasks. I will leak rumours that you are a frigid, cold, unloving bitch. I will make Fitz look like the victim. And then, when he wants to take Olivia Pope as a wife, the United States of America will absolutely _adore_ their second First Lady as much as their President always has. And you've got a big brain, Mellie, but it won't do you any good when you are taken out with the trash. When I have ruined you. Be a _good_ First Lady, Mellie. _Stay_."

Mellie's bottom lip protruded ever so slightly in her trade-mark pout, her hands curling into fists as she stood to keep them from shaking. He was right, painfully right. She was smart but no one knew, no one cared. She had skills but they were clandestine and probably so out of use that they were gone completely. And she was nothing without him, without this Office. Not anymore, not with this dark cloud that she felt was permanently drawn over her. Her son was gone. Sure, it was Fitz's son, she knew that now, but it had always been _her_ son. And the rage towards his father, though not misplaced, had become a heavy stone in her gut ever since she'd lost him. There was no peace for her, there wouldn't be. Even once the next four years passed by, once she and Fitz inevitably separated, once she attempted to get her stalled career back on track, she wouldn't feel a moment of lightness again. She was heavy now, heavy with the kind of weight she thought she'd taught herself how to lose.

"Thank you for your time, Cyrus," Mellie murmured, turning to leave.  
"I'm sorry for your loss, Mel," Cyrus called out, rubbing a hand over his own tired eyes, raising them from Jame's smiling face and to the retreating figure of the woman he'd casually promised to destroy—given certain circumstances. "Jerry was a hell of a kid. Smart as a whip." He paused, adding with a sad smile. " Just like his mom."

She snapped her eyes shut in pain, drawing in a shaky breath, and then finally opening his door and leaving his office.


	5. The Hotel Room

Olivia used her key card to gain access to her hotel room, Jake Ballard in a suit behind her. It was an unremarkable room on an unremarkable floor, and her floor length, Donna Karan dress looked out of place; splendour amidst mediocrity. It was a bright, plum coloured gown with a cowl back, and it had cost her about the amount she'd usually have spent on an inaugural ball gown or some other high-end gala. This, however, had only been worn to a night out with a friend in a place where no one even knew who they were. This was the life she'd traded up for, the calm and quiet sort of insignificance that could make a woman like her lose her mind. She decided that she'd better have a glass or two of red after all.  
Jake was watching her with a quiet sort of attention. She walked over to the minibar, each step she took having an effect on him, tightening the grasp she already had on his heart. There was a certainty in her movements; nothing frivolous or manipulative. She didn't sway her hips for attention or flip her hair to release the scent of her shampoo—those were just happy accidents. He'd known over dinner that she wouldn't be able to deny a glass of her favourite spirit later; she'd been distant and unfocused, her legs tapping underneath the table. And despite his many charms and skills, even he could not pull her out from wherever it was she was hiding.  
As she poured the first glass of wine, Jake did what he did best in her presence; linger. Whenever he was with her, he found himself stuffing his hands in his pockets like an over-eager high school student with the prom queen. The worst part was that she had no intention or knowledge of doing these things to him, it was so offhand and accidental that he felt even more out of his league. In truth, it was simply _her_ that awed him, impressed him more than anything else had. And it made sense. In his line of work, Jake had only had the opportunity of really getting to know women he was meant to kill or train to kill. Both of those relationship styles were so routine to him, boring if you really thought about it. There wasn't much to get to know as much as there was for him to change and create something new. Liv was untouchable, unchangeable.  
When he'd been working for President Grant, he'd watched her every move, studied her, gotten to know her ticks and little things. He had never imagined that actually meeting her would bring her to life so much. He'd never known a person like her, or really, gotten to be known _to_ a person like her. And even throughout all of their on-again off-again relationship antics, their tumultuous work relationship, their friendship had felt almost constant. Almost.

"There's beer, too," Olivia called, not bothering to glance back in his direction as she swallowed down half a glass of red. "Help yourself."

He loosened his necktie, closing the distance between the two of them to pull out one of the pale ales in the tiny fridge. They weren't twist-offs, but the hotel had politely provided a bottle opener with the hotel name engraved into the metal. He popped the cap, leaving it on the counter as he took a few drinks of his beverage. Olivia had just finished the rest of her wine and was pouring herself another glass. As usual, she seemed only mildly aware of his presence, and, not for the first time, he thought of how much he'd give just to know a fraction of the things she was thinking about.

"Sorry," she said with a half-smile, as if reading his thoughts. "I'm not very good company."  
"I've had worse," he told her, mirroring her smile. " This feels like Prom, doesn't it?" He gestured to the space around them, " Fancy clothes, hotel room, a minibar. Awkwardness. This feels like prom."  
"I didn't go to prom," Olivia responded, leaning slightly against the wall, one arm across her stomach as the other held the wine below her mouth. " Surval Montreux didn't have proms, and that was where I was in my final year of high school. We didn't even really have dances."  
"I didn't go to prom either," Jake admitted, taking another drink of beer. When she tilted her head to the side, he shrugged. " It just wasn't what kids like me did. But I will stand by my previous statement that this is what prom feels like."  
She rolled her eyes, taking a small sip of wine. "Then I'll take your word for it, since you went to public school and I didn't." She paused, looking over to him. " You did, didn't you?"  
"Yes, Liv," Jake grinned, thinking back to his beat-down school with the questionable staff and rat infestations, one rusty and not entirely safe basketball hoop without a net in the back. "Surval Montreux? That's…where is that, again?"  
"Switzerland," Olivia sighed. "My father always wanted me as far away as possible. Studying, of course. When I started to get a little too old and attentive, he switched me out of Saint Anne's because it was in Virginia, sent me to Surval Montreux."  
"I assume you didn't enjoy it?" Jake asked, having some more of his beer.  
"Oh no, it was wonderful," Olivia answered, though her voice betrayed no joy or passion. "I made some amazing friends there. The school had wonderful teachers, resources, extracurriculars; enough opportunities to keep me busy, intellectually stimulated, _happy_."  
" So, why the long face?" Jake wondered, wetting his lips before taking another drink. His high school story couldn't hold a candle to hers. His truancy, fighting, unremarkable grades. He was quietly troubled, even then. The only person he'd ever talked to about much of anything back then had been his sister Monica, but now…  
"I can't **not** be her. I can't not be Olivia Pope," she finished her glass of wine, and moved away from him, pacing in circles as she spoke. It was a speech that she had been considering giving since dinner, and only her wine had made it easy for her to finally say what was on her mind. "I have the same memories, and dreams, and aspirations, and temperament. At dinner tonight, I realized that I left Washington to fix a problem, but who knows how many could have been created since then."  
"That's an excuse," Jake warned her, though he knew the circular pacing was a sign that she was really worried.  
"I left my own company to pick up the pieces of Washington," she told him, "And they can handle it, they are amazing and smart and dedicated. But who's going to look after Huck, and now Quinn? Who's going to help Abby and Harrison keep the peace? They're my friends and I have memories of them, of us building something together, and I promised them 'over a cliff'."  
"I don't have any good memories," Jake told her, causing her to stop and look at him. It hadn't been for shock value, it was just the truth. " So I guess I don't really know how to empathize with you on what you've left behind. But you've got to know that it's okay to do things for yourself. After everything that's happened, it's about damn time."  
"But is this really for me?" She countered, shrugging her shoulders lightly. "Is this what I want?"  
" I don't know, is it?" Jake was getting tired of her rhetoric, of her questions without answers, and of the way she was making him feel like she'd be blaming him for her decisions in a few minutes.  
"My education, my upbringing, my mentorships, all of that has led me to becoming Olivia Pope of Pope and Associates," she told him, the pacing continuing. " And I dirtied the path, I fell in love with a married man, a married _Governor_, and I lost my way. And I've felt guilty and ashamed and _unclean_ for so long, that when all the little voices started telling me I had to leave, I believed them. My mother, my father, Mellie—"  
"Me?" Jake interrupted, again catching her eyes. Before she could speak, he shook his head, " I didn't tell you to leave—"  
"You asked me to save you, it's the same thing," Olivia told him, her voice hard and clear. "And I wanted to, I wanted to stand in the sun with you—"  
"I didn't want you to stand in the sun with me," he told her, putting down his beer angrily and taking a step closer towards her. " I wanted us to stand in the sun _together_. Something you still don't seem to grasp." He sighed, put his hands on either side of her face and looked into her dark eyes. " I wanted you to save me, so that I could have a chance at saving you."  
"I don't need saving," She told him, her hands on his forearms softly. " I can save myself."  
"Everybody needs a hero sometimes," Jake told her, leaning in and closing his mouth over hers.

It had been a while since they'd last kissed, really kissed. Mouth on mouth, tongue on tongue, passion slowly burning from within. She was distant and hard to reach, Jake knew, even when she was in the same room as him. But in this instant, she was there; she was _all_ there. And one hand kept a firm grip on her cheek while the other locked around towards her slender back, pulling her tight against him so that no inch of him wasn't touching an inch of her. Her hands were in his hair, on his neck, and her mouth was unrelenting with its heat and pressure. Jake found himself lightheaded and needing air, but not even remotely willing to pull away from her for a moment. She, however, didn't have the same inability.

"Jake," her voice was clear, if not a little breathy and flustered. She looked up at him, shaking her head slowly. " I'm still in love with someone else."  
"So am I," he told her, a hand moving up the bare skin of her back to tug at the halter strings, which she did not object to. Jake held her chin in his other hand, and with a slight smirk, he added, " I'm in love with Olivia Pope." And as he leaned in to catch her mouth once more, he added, "Who you are not."


End file.
